


local brewery

by TrashcanWithSprinkles



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Holding Hands, Kinda, M/M, Minecraft, Mutual Pining, The Nether, Village Raids, also george is a good fighter, but its realistic, dream's potion making mastery is underrated, no beta we die like men, soft, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25427287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrashcanWithSprinkles/pseuds/TrashcanWithSprinkles
Summary: In which George's journey leads him to a village where a peculiar brewster lives, and he learns about the art of potion-making.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 785





	local brewery

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for deciding to read this and i hope you'll enjoy it!
> 
> i've been lurking in this fandom for a while and i'm glad to notice it's very nice and respectful but we do have to always make this clear anyway: if i see any of you shoving this down dream and george's throats i'm coming for your spines. don't ship real people, this is just the personas they use in their videos n what they willingly share with us, so respect that.  
> anyway yeah if any of them ever become uncomfy with stuff like this y'know what's happening to this fic so enjoy it while it's here!

George had been travelling alone for years now when he happened upon that village. He had come across many on his forced journey, but had never found much reason to stay. The villagers were all trying to survive on their own right, but most were a bit too terrified of the threats of the nightly mosnters and the godforsaken pillagers to look him kindly in the eye as he passed by. George himself had lost his home village to a raid, and since then had aimlessly wandered the world in search for...  
He didn't even know.

But when _that_ village came into view in the distance, he knew there was something different about it.  
To start, it had walls around it.

A pair of iron golems had eyed him when he approached the northern entrance, and seemed to deem him harmless enough before letting him in. 

The village inside wasn't the biggest he'd ever seen. A river cut through a third of it, and in the bountiful plains it was located on most of the land inside the walls was dedicated to farmlands. There were a handful of houses, a small marketplace in the middle with its shiny alarm bell, a smithy's workshop, a library, and a tower with stained-glass windows attached to another house.

George made his way to the main square and found there was also a leatherworker, he just hadn't spotted his workshop from the north. He bought a couple of loaves of bread from the farmers and talked a little with the townsfolk, mainly asking about the walls and the reason why there was more than one iron golem in here.  
That's how he found out another traveler like himself had arrived in the village a year ago and had since settled there, bringing all those changes along with him.  
Said traveler was not in the village when George arrived, as he'd left some weeks prior to stock up on some resources.

On his first day, George merely lounged around the square, relaxing within the security of the walls. When night fell, he pitched his tent on an empty plot of land across the river and had the best night's sleep in years.

The next day he left the village for the ravine down south, returning with a bag-full of coal to sell to the smithy. He asked around the village if anyone had some errands he could run for emeralds, and by sunset had managed to strike a deal with the leatherworker.  
So the next day he went out to hunt.  
Upon returning, the farmers offered to buy some of his steak to make a feast for the upcoming festival of the founding of the village, and he retired to his tent early with more emeralds than anticipated.

It was on the fourth day that he heard the news of the return of the traveller, whom the villagers reffered to as 'the brewster'.  
This immediately caught George's interest, because the only people he'd ever known to brew those strange toxic potions they threw at monsters liked to call themselves 'clerics'.   
It was the first time he'd ever heard of anyone going by the title of brewster.

And so, after having breakfast in the town square with the leatherworker and the smithy, George went to visit what the rest of the townsfolk indicated to be the brewster's workshop: the tower he'd seen when first arriving.

The inside of the tower was not what he'd been expecting: it was packed full of stuff. Most towers from the clerics he'd visited in his travels were barren; a small counter with the brewing stand and maybe a chest with their bottles or a cauldron with water.  
This one? There were shelves as far as the eye could see, stacked with books, jars, boxes, containers, bottles; you name it. There were ovens to the far back, made out of compacted cobblestone, a cauldron in the middle of the four of them. There was a crafting bench and a long table with several shinier brewing stands, all working at the same time.  
And standing behind the counter with his attention on the shelves was who George had to assume was the brewster himself: a man in plain clothes wearing a paper plate mask with a sloppy smiley face drawn on top.  
For once, the tower actually looked like someone brewed potions in there, the air filled with a constant warm smell of... of something, he couldn't quite tell. 

The brewster took notice of him as he shifted his attention from the books to the stands.

"Well, that's certainly a new face," came the unexpectedly jovial voice of the man. Though, considering the smiley mask, George supposed he should've seen it coming. "You must be the traveller the villagers have been going on about."

"Uhm, yeah," George let out, lamely, not sure what to say to that. "I arrived here like four days ago. My name's George."

"Then welcome, George," the man mused, and George tried not to pay attention to the fact he liked the way the other pronounced his name. "I'm Clay, the local brewster."

"So I've been told," George hummed, walking up to the counter so as to not stand awkwardly by the door. "It's the first time I've heard anyone call themselves that."

"Can't say I'm surprised," Clay commented, taking one of the jars and examining its contents. Even if his attention was no longer on him, George felt as though the man wasn't necesarily kicking him out.

"I've met some clerics who use brewing stands to make some toxic things, but I've never met anyone who actually makes potions," he added, honest, leaning his hips sideways on the counter to watch the other work. If Clay noticed, he didn't seem to mind the attention. "And I've been traveling for a good three years now."

"Their brewing stands are very rudimentary, and they only make potions that deal damage, hence why they throw them around," Clay explained as he returned the jar to its original place and seemed to search for another one. "Effective enough if they're trying to shoo zombies during the nights, but intrinsically flawed."

"Flawed?"

"They lack essential components, both to make potions and to make the brewing stands themselves," the man mused, happy to enlighten George. "While their stands work, there's only so much they can make with that. And, like, ninety percent of the known potions require one base ingredient that they also don't have. So they can only make those harming potions, because you only need water and fermented spider eyes."

George tried not to gag at the mental image of _that_. No wonder those potions had always smelled so putrid.

"Yeah, disgusting," Clay chuckled, and George immediately schooled his expression into an empty one. Oh no, had he been making a face?

"W-Well," he managed out, ignoring the sensation of having the other chuckle at his face. Clay's smile seemed to linger regardless, and it was a little distracting. Why did his mask only cover his eyes and nose?! "Then what do they lack? Why do they not have it?"

"The ingredients are not easy to get, everything they don't have can only be found in one place. And that place is a dangerous hellscape; you won't see any clerics or toolsmiths venturing in there," Clay mused, apparently finding the jar he was looking for. "Not that they know how to get there in the first place."

"And you do?" was all George got out, surprised.

"An old secret," the brewster chuckled again as he turned to him and, damn, it really was distracting. "I'd wink, but you wouldn't see it."

That got a small laugh out of George, but he sobered up soon after. Clay seemed to remember he'd found the jar, and returned his attention to it.

"Speaking of lacking things," he turned his body to George, walking up to the counter. George, then, noticed the brewster was a good head taller than him. Damn. His attention was snapped back to the man as he leaned on the counter, elbows resting on the wood. "Did you happen to come across a spider's den on your way here?"

"I- Yeah," George nodded, not sure he liked where this was going.

Clay leaned his head on one palm and shook the empty jar towards George with his other hand, a grin on his lips. "Would you mind terribly?"

George felt his mouth stay agape and his brow furrowed for a second before he managed to concoct a sentence. "You want me to bring you spider eyes?"

"Do your local brewster a favor," Clay insisted, still smiling. "I'll give you a discount for the next potion you get."

"I don't even use potions."

"You don't even _know_ potions, George," the man nearly whined, still smiling, and his name being spoken like that stopped whatever retort George might've come up with. "Tell you what: I'll teach you some about potions, and then when you come to buy one, I'll give you a discount."

Begrudgingly, George stopped to consider that. It wasn't as if getting into a spider's den and collecting a jar-full of eyes would cost him much. He was a good fighter, mind you, and a bunch of spiders weren't going to be a problem; he'd gone up against far scarier things during his years of travel. He just didn't like spiders much.  
On the other hand, the prospect of learning more about potions was enticing. He'd never cared much for them, only ever wondered from afar. But now he had the option to learn, maybe not to actually brew them, but to know what they could be used for and how one went about to basically doing magic through some ingredients and water. And, well, a spider's den would yield him a hefty ammount of string, enough to maybe repair his bow.  
Besides, the idea of spending more time with Clay didn't sound so terribly boring.

Clay's smug smirk almost made him want to say no out of spite, but it was _distracting_ , and George was weak.

"Ugh- Fine," he relented, snatching the jar out of the brewster's hands. Clay legitimately pumped a fist in the air and let out a 'yesss!' of celebration, almost like an excited child. George found he couldn't fight back a smile at that. "But don't expect them fermented, I don't know how to do that."

"Oh no, I'll take care of that," Clay assured, sobering up from his enthusiasm but wide smile still present on what George could see of his face. The only thing his mind managed to provide was: _He has dimples._ "Thank you for your valiant efforts, oh young traveler! May luck be with you every step of the way."

George rolled his eyes at the dramatics at the end and waved goodbye at the brewster, leaving the tower with an empty jar in hand and one more errand to run.  
He found he minded far less than he thought he would.

It was still early, so on the fourth day George left the village once more, this time through the northern entrance. He'd had to round a massive ravine on his way there back when he first arrived, and he remembered spotting the wooden planks of abandoned mineshafts at the bottom.  
And spiders loved to make their dens in the mineshafts.

He took a detour for a swampland to the east, resuming his walk to the ravine with a handful of vines wrapped around his shoulder. Once there, it was as easy as tying them up into a long rope and securing that to a tree. He used that to climb into the ravine and kept a steady hold on his shield and axe in case of any monsters, iron sword strapped to his belt.

George had been traveling alone for three years now. He remembered being full of fear when he first had to hit the roads and flee the village under attack.  
Now he was experienced. He had gear to protect him and knowledge of the beasts that lurked in the darkness. Now he could behead zombies and skeletons in one good swing of his iron axe, and take cover behind his shield when the arrows were too many.

It was after some dozen zombies and a good ten skeletons that he sighted the mess of cobwebs in the distance.

Getting rid of the spiders was an easy task: they fell into a puddle of gross blue liquid with a good hit of his axe. He killed about twenty of them before the queen came out to fight, and that one did take him a bit longer than usual.  
But he was strong, and so it wasn't long before that, too, was lying on the ground along with the rest.

Knowing it would be some time before any monster dared approach the empty den after such a carnage, George hung his shield on his backpack and strapped his axe to his belt as he fetched the jar Clay had given him.   
With much disgust, he scooped up the eyes of the dead spiders into the jar, having to force the lid closed and smush the orbs inside once he was done gathering them all.  
It smelled terrible, but at least he had the ingredients asked now stored safely in his backpack.

Since he was already there, George spent another ten minutes hacking at the cobwebs with his sword, ravelling the sticky string around his spinning top.  
Once that was dealt with as well, he grabbed shield and axe again and made for his rope of vines to get out of there.

Night had fallen by the time George returned to the village, tired, but feeling acomplished. He greeted the golems by the entrance and made a beeline for the tower, relishing in the safety of the walls as he hung his shield and axe back in place.  
Clay was hunched over the ovens in the back when he entered.

"Here," he announced, depositing the jar-full of gooey spider eyes on top of the counter with a hint of disgust in his voice. "Have fun."

"That didn't take you long," Clay commented, apparently surprised, walking up to the counter and taking the jar. He examined it with a smile. "This is perfect, thanks. Where was the den?"

"In a mineshaft to the north. I saw it at the bottom of a ravine as I was passing by," George tried not to shrug, looking on as the brewster opened the jar and began ditribuiting the contents into smaller jars.

"That explains why I didn't see it before, I usually don't travel north..." Clay mused, pouring a strange... beige paste into the small jars. It smelled of mushrooms. 

Sugar followed the paste, and George refrained from showing his disgust as the brewster grabbed a stick and began smashing the eyes into a pulp, mixing them with the other ingredients.  
Deciding to leave the other to his work, George reaffirmed his hold on his backpack and bid Clay goodnight before leaving for his tent.

The next day found him sitting on a boulder by the river, spinning the sticky cobweb strings into something more usable. Too hardstrung, and it would be impossible to do anything with it. Too thin, and it was better suited for a fishing rod. George had to aim for somewhere in the middle so that it could serve as a new bowstring.

"I didn't fancy you a spinster," a familiar voice joked from across the river.

George huffed, hating the fact a smile was pulled from him by the brewster's voice alone. He continued to spin the string as the other man deftly jumped from one boulder to the other to cross the river over to his side. "My mother was, she taught me how."

Clay landed on the grass at his side and took a seat, lying on his back unceremoniously as he placed a large backpack to the side. George decided to leave him be and kept his attention on the string.  
A few minutes passed in silence as he went through the calming motions of spinning the string and tried not to wonder if what he felt on his back was the stare of the brewster or just his mind playing tricks on him.

The other man sat up with a soft noise of effort, and George damned his fingers from twitching on the string at that. "Quite the nice spot you have here," Clay commented.

"Yeah," George let himself sigh, looking around for a moment. His tent was on a small hill next to a big oak tree, and the river flowed directly at the feet of it. The walls were still a little ways behind him, and the village could be seen across the small potato fields on the other side of the river. He could even see Clay's tower from there. "Yeah, it is nice. Though it's only temporary... I think."

"You think?" the brewster asked, and George refrained form wondering if what he heard on his voice was disappointment or not.

"I'm tired of travelling, really," he admitted with another sigh. "But I don't know if just... settling here, would be good with everyone else."

"I mean, that's how I arrived, and you don't see anyone complaining."

"I know," George chuckled despite himself, and had half a mind to hear Clay shift on his seat nearby. "Maybe it's not a bad idea, to finally start again, have a new beginning."

He'd already had a new beginning, although unwanted, when he'd been forced to hit the roads three years ago. But George decided he could have as many beginnings as it took for him to find one he liked.

"You left your home village, right? What made you leave?" Clay asked. George watched the string spin in silence for a moment too long, distracted in his thoughts, and the other seemed to take that as hesitance to talk about it. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to-"

"No, it's fine," George shook himself out of his musing, stopping the spinning top. The bowstring was ready. He should probably make a fishing rod with the leftover string, it had been a while since his previous one broke in half. He started to gather the bowstring and cut it to size, managing to make two spare ones aside from the one he needed. "It was raided, a bit more than three years ago. I don't know if anyone else but me escaped with their lives intact."

"So you've been on the run," the brewster hummed, mellow, somehow apologetic. "Now I feel kind of silly to have left mine for adventure."

"No shame in that," George assured, beginning to spin the top again. "I can't say I haven't enjoyed traveling at all. I just wish it would've been under different circumstances."

Clay hummed in thought at that, and they let the silence rest.  
George finished the fishing rod thread faster than the bowstring, and tossed the spinning top into his tent to properly store it later. He might've missed the backpack, but he couldn't tell from down there. The silence continued as he fixed his bow a new string and fashioned himself a new fishing rod, Clay content to just sit to the side and watch him go about the menial tasks.  
George was returning from storing the spare bowstrings in his backpack in his tent when the brewster began searching through his own stuff sitting to the side.

"I just remembered I came here to give you something," he half-explained, shoulder-deep into his backpack.

George quirked a brow as he returned to his spot atop the boulder, now facing the other man. "Give me something?"

Clay seemed to find what he was searching, and emerged form his bag with a small glass bottle in hand, the liquid inside a color George couldn't quite tell apart glazed over by an ethereal gleam. The brewster handed him the bottle, and George took it carefully. The glass was blown very thin: this wouldn't survive a fall from the counter for sure. "That's a harming potion, made of the fermented spider eyes you brought yesterday."

"What?" George managed out, instinctively holding the bottle farther from his face. Clay chuckled at that. "Why are you giving me this?"

"Consider it a thank-you gift," Clay shrugged. "I thought it'd be nice if you could actually get to see for yourself what you helped me make yesterday does."

"O...kay, but why is he bottle so thin?" George quetioned, feeling like he would accidentally break it any second now. "Isn't the inside dangerous?"

"It is, yeah. I wasn't content with the classic bottles, so I made thinner ones," Clay shrugged again. George shot him a 'but why??' look, and he chukled before elaborating further. "Those are _harming_ potions, George, you want them to affect your foes. The best way to use potions against enemies is to toss 'em."

"Oh," George let out, retort rendered useless the moment the brewster pronouned his name with that tone of voice. "So you just... let it splash them?"

"That's what the clerics do, but that's kinda ineffective," Clay huffed, and it seemed to George as if the man could go on an hour-long rant about the many things clerics did wrong when it came to brewing potions. "No, this one has a little trick to it, see. Other than the bottle being thinner and beter for tossing, I also added a compound of gunpowder to the fermeted spider eyes mix. So when you throw it into a horde of zombies, it will shatter and explode, spreading the potion for... about six feet in every direction. Everyone hit by it will be affected by the mix."

George took a moment to process those words, looking down at the bottle in his hands. If he tossed it into a horde of enemies, everyone within a six feet radius will be instantly hit with the effects of it. In this case, it was a potion of harming.   
This meant that, in a pinch, he could throw this and instantly weaken or, even more, kill a bunch of monsters attacking him.

"Clay, this is brilliant!" was what he eventually managed out, surprised. "Oh, this would've been so useful when I fell into that dungeon two years ago."

"A shame we hadn't met back then," Clay snickered. George directed his smile to him, only to pause.

_Dimples..._

"W-Well, but the discount offer is still up," the brewster stumbled over his words for a moment, and George felt his face grow hot for a second. He didn't want to know what expression he'd just been making. "Anytime you want to know more about potions or are in the mood for a little quest, feel free to drop by the tower."

George couldn't help but smile to that, however. "That'd be wonderful."

And so it went.

During the following weeks, the villagers helped George set up a small cottage on the same spot where his tent used to be, pausing only for the festival of the town's founding. Clay was, for some reason, over the moon to learn George had found melon seeds during his travels, and insisted he planted them and then sold him some of the slices.  
Finding no reason to say no to that, George began growing a patch of melons near the river, using the bones of the many skeletons he'd encountered on the wilderness to make nutritive bonemeal for his plants. He had an assortment of seeds on his person, truth be told. He planted an apple tree to the opposite side of the house from the oak tree, and ended up filling his garden with rosebushes, lilacs, peonies, orchids, sunflowers; you name it. If it was a flower and he'd found it in his travels, he was probably growing it on his garden now.  
The melons and the apple tree both grew scarily fast with the help of the bonemeal, and it was the second day of his second month in the village when he plucked his first batch of melons.

He had been visiting Clay once or twice a week, lately even more than that for reasons he dind't want to consider for longer than a second. He learned of his small garden behind the house next to the tower (which, unsurprisingly, was his') and of the pumpkins and the... weird mushroom-like roots he grew on strange soil, which the brewster had presented to him with a proud smile that made George completely miss what those things were even called. He helped him make another iron golem, a process he never knew was basically a magic spell on some solid iron blocks and a carved pumpkin; and even got to name it.  
As Mr. Golem walked over to the southern entrance of the village, however, Clay was still mocking George for his innability to name things.  
George tried not to pout too much at that, which was easy when he was far too focused on not thinking about how much he liked the brewster's laughter.

Clay taught him one evening in the tower about the mushroom-like things in his garden, how those were the base ingredient for nearly all known potions, and how they only grew on that specific soil. He taught him, over breakfast in the square the next day, about the golden-like rods necesary for making 'The Good Stands', and how those rods could be smashed into a powder that was then used to fuel the brewing stands. He told him, when George returned from the mineshaft with a jar-full of redstone dust for him, about how a compound of the stuff could be used to lenghten the time of duration of most potions' effects. How (and this was through mouthfuls of baked potato courtesy of the farmer) a thing called glowstone dust, conversely, could be used to strengthen the effects of certain other potions. How the gunpowder compound he told him once could make any potion explode and affect an area arround it, and that he still hadn't figured out how that made any sense with the potions you'd think would need to be ingested to work. George had never seen him so frustrated, and it was only then he realized he had been sitting on the tower's counter listening to the brewster ramble for an hour now. So that was certainly an evening.

"But this... Nether wrath?"

"Nether wart."

"Right. This Nether wart, the Blaze rods, and the glowstone... they all come from this other place, right? The one only you know how to access?" George quirked a brow, sitting across the small table form Clay, his backpack with the first batch of melon slices sitting by the feet of his chair.

Clay finished slicing the pumpkin pie he'd baked as an excuse to invite George over, and passed one portion to him. "The Nether, yes."

"The Nether..." George repeated, pensive, taking a bite from the pumpkin pie. It was delicious. He was almost sure he had a slightly surprised look on his face as he covered his mouth with one hand, still chewing, and looked at the brewster. "This is really good!"

"Thank you, I'm glad you like it," Clay smiled, plating his own slice and setting the rest to the side. George thought for a moment there was something warmer to his smile, something that had only begun to appear as of late, but decided to pay it no mind. Despite having been around the other man for a while now and comfortably calling him his friend, Clay's smile and those damned dimples were no less distracting than they had been back when they first met. George didn't know at this point if the mask hiding the rest of his face was all that bad.

Curiosity was far stronger than embarrassment, however.

An amiable silence settled on them as they ate pumpkin pie in the kitchen of Clay's house, legs still under the table an inch apart from brushing as neither commented on it.  
Slices finished and remaining pie left for later on the kitchen counter, George broke the silence with a tentative question.

"How do you get to the Nether?"

Clay sat back down on his chair and hesitated for a moment before answering. "Through a portal," he mused, a finger tapping on the table. "A portal made out of obsidian blocks, ignited with a spark."

"A portal?" George quirked a brow, confused.

"The Nether is like a whole different dimension," Clay chuckled, and Georgre tried not to watch his dimples as he did so. "It's nothing like here. Everything is dark and hot and water evaporates as soon as you place it anywhere. It does have its nicer parts, though."

George hummed at that. It did sound like a hellscape. But if he understood correctly, then Clay made a trip in there once in a while in search for Blaze rods and glowstone, since he now could grow the Nether wart in his garden.

"I could take you on a small trip there, if you'd like," Clay offered, quiet and doubtful. George found his adventurer side rather liked the prospect of seeing a whole new dimension, even if just a piece of it.

"Are you sure?" he asked regardless. He wouldn't want to impose.

"Yeah," Clay nodded, sitting back, more relaxed at the lack of a direct negation. "I'm running out of glowstone dust anyway, so I have to go back in there soon enough. Besides, you've been travelling alone longer than I have; I'm sure if I can fend for myself in there then so can you."

"I suppose that's true," George hummed. Yeah, it couldn't be so bad, could it? Besides, he'd have Clay in there if anything did happen. "Well, if you really don't mind me tagging along, then I'm down for some more exploring."

"Great," Clay smiled that contagious smile, and George couldn't fight back his own. "We could leave tomorrow, I have to get some stuff ready before we depart."

George supposed tomorrow was as good a day as any, and nodded. He remembered to give Clay the melon slices before leaving the house, and the man looked like a kid with a new toy as he accepted the fruits and nearly lunged in to hug George.  
Had he not been holding the melons, he probably would've; and George wasn't sure he wanted to know why he was so disappointed he didn't.

The day went by in a blur as George returned to his cottage and prepared for the trip the next day. He repaired any dents in his gear, made a bunch of arrows, and sharpened his axe just in case they had to fight.  
When morning came, he made sure he had enough food and his tools were packed before heading for the tower.  
Clay was waiting for him with a diamond sword on hanging from his belt along with four potions, in pairs of different colors. He could see his shield by his backpack, and the mask was _still_ on his face.  
He had the contagious smile on, and George felt himself getting excited for the adventure.

"You ready?"

Clay led him to the basement of the tower, an almost cavernous room locked behind an iron door.  
In the middle of the room was... a portal. It was a tall obsidian frame with a shimmering glowing middle, swirling, pulling George in and away from it with otherwordly sounds.  
He gulped.

Clay asked him once more if he was ready, and together they stepped into the portal.

The world seemed to spin around him before the brewster was nudging him out of the obsidian and onto a... strange rock, softer than cobblestone-  
The heat hit George a second too late, and Clay couldn't reel a wheezing laughter back in time as George placed his hands on his knees for support, trying to breathe in the scorching air.  
He couldn't even be mad at the other for laughing.

"You good?" Clay asked as he sobered up. With the heat and the impression of a new place, all George's mind could supply was: _dimples..._

"Yeah, I'm- Yeah," he coughed, composing himself. The heat was oppresive, but it was slightly more bearable after a moment in it.

"I should've warned you, my bad."

"You should've."

As Clay laughed softly to the side, George took a moment to properly look around for the first time: the walls, ceiling, and ground were all made of that strange malleable rock. There were spots nearby straight-up in flames, and it didn't seem as though the fire would be stopping nor spreading any time soon. What horizon there was seemed shrowded in shadows, a ceiling wraping over their heads as... was that lava?   
As lava-falls flowed down from the rock into what George could only assume was a sea of it.  
No wonder it was hot as hell in there.

"That's the glowstone," Clay's voice made him look back over his shoulder, to a luminous rock protruding from the low ceiling of a cavern not far. "C'mon, I'll get some of that and then there's a place I want to show you."

George fought back the warmth within him at those words and fell in step after the man. On the way there, Clay explained to him the creatures that inhabited this place: there were some strange pig-like men who didn't seem to speak any language, were obsessed with gold, wouldn't attack them so long as they wore something of it, and would give him random stuff in exchange for ingots.  
George supposed that explained why they were both wearing golden helmets.  
He also told him about the zombies down there, which where zombified pig-like men who would ignore them so long as they didn't attack them. There were ghost-like creatures who roamed the higher parts of the Nether and would screech and cry and shoot fireballs at you if they saw you; those were called Ghasts. There were strange beasts at the bottom of the lavalakes, called Striders, who were peaceful. There were also large beasts with huge tusks that lurked in crimson forests, but those were better left alone. There were also skeletons and slime monsters, though the latter were more magma-like.  
Endermen could also be found in there, for some reason.

"There's a fortress in here with black skeletons and the Blaze monsters, the ones I can get the rods from," Clay explained as he sandpapered the glowstone into dust, collecting it in two glowing jars. It was very pretty, looking almost like gold, but... warmer. "But we're not going there today, I have plenty of Blaze powder and I don't want to cross that crimson forest to get there."

"Then the only things to watch out for here are... skeletons, Ghasts, those tusked beasts, and magma slimes?" George asked, looking around on standby while the other collected the dust.

"Only Ghasts, really, the others all have certain areas they prefer," he mused, closing the jars and jumping down back to George. "It's the Ghasts the ones that are everywhere." George took mental note of that, holding the jars while Clay opened the backpack. Once those were stored, the brewster stood up again and dusted off his hands. "Now let's go, there's a great spot not far from here."

George couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm, and followed him out of the cavernous section and across the scorching barren land.  
Just as Clay had said, there were pig-like men moving around, most zombified while others wore golden boots and leather clothes and looked at them with nothing more than curiosity.  
He supposed, then, the danger of this place came more from getting lost, the Ghasts, the fortress, and the literal seas of lava below them.

Clay helped him up a steep cliff of the soft rock and continued to hold his hand as they approached what looked like the edge of it.  
He seemed to remember he was holding his hand and let go of it. George hated he was disappointed at that.

"Right," Clay clicked his tongue, reaching for two of the potions on his belt and showing them to George. The liquid inside was as bright as the lava below them. "These are fire resistance potions."

"Okay?" George quirked a brow, waiting for him to elaborate.

"Just in case. It's easy to miss your step and fall down here," he handed one of the bottles to him, and George took it carefully, strapping it to an accesible spot on his backpack. "Hopefully it doesn't happen, but if you end up falling down and there's only lava at the bottom, just drink that before you hit it and swim back to shore. It should last long enough for you to get out before the effect wears off."

"Alright."

It was slightly unnerving to have such a 'just in case', but George supposed drastic situations required drastic measures.

From there, they walked along the edge of a cliff, the rocky wall to their side not giving them much room to work with.   
George was looking up at what seemed like quartz embeded in the ceiling when he felt his boots step onto something mossy instead of the weird soft rock of before.  
He stopped in his tracks and looked down, finding the stone was turning into a blueish moss littered with small roots and tiny mushrooms.  
He looked up to see Clay had stopped walking as well, and had turned to him with a hand outstretched towards him.

"Here," he offered, expression unreadable. "It's easy to get lost here."

George took his hand in silence and followed after him.

The cliff's edge led them into what George could only describe as an enchanted forest. The tree-like plants were actually gigantic mushrooms, the stems glowing and shimering in a deep blue color. There were bioluminiscent fungi growing on the 'leaves' of the mushrooms, and stiff twisting vines that grew from the moss and reached far over their heads.

"Up ahead, an Enderman," Clay warned, voice hushed, and George tried not to be distracted by his low tone.

Regardless, he heeded his warning and looked down at his feet, avoiding the eyes of the tall monster lurking among the mushrooms. The strange noises it made reached them as they walked past it. It took a moment to register for George the fact Clay didn't need to look down because his mask shielded his eyes.

They continued to walk for a while, George admiring his alien surroundings and occasionally looking down to avoid Endermen's eyes. He tried to let the otherwordly place and its fairytale-like atmosphere relax him, but it was slightly difficult when he was hyper-aware of Clay's hand holding his'.  
He had... very nice hands.

"We're here," Clay almost gasped, pulling George out of his reverie.

They had reached the edge of the strange forest and were standing under one of the mushrooms. In front of them was a grey, still landscape of interlocking basalt columns and dark stone. Ashes fell from the inverted columns on the ceiling, coating the mushroom they were under and the floor on a snowy-like layer of dust. It was quiet, the oppresive heat of the barren soft rocks they'd first found nearly gone in the shelter of the mushrooms and the falling ashes.  
And past the basalt columns he could see a valley of a deep, ashen brown sand, _blue fire_ lighting up the ground as massive skeletal remains of some gigantic beast of old laid half-buried in the sand.

Everything was silent, George feared is own breathing was too loud. The rumble of the lava of before had been a constant noise in his ears, followed by the odd sounds coming from the bioluminiscent fungi.  
But now there was nothing. It was dead silent.  
It was almost peaceful.

He felt Clay give his hand a small squeeze, and George feared for a second he would let go.  
But instead, the brewster lifted his free hand and pushed the paper plate mask over his head.  
He turned to George and gave him a shy smile.

His eyes were bright.  
So bright.  
George wasn't sure exactly what color they were, but they were _beautiful._  
He smiled back, warm, and Clay returned the gesture before looking out at the landscape.

"Ghasts like to roam those two areas in particular," Clay informed after a moment of silence, his voice quiet and gentle. George felt the need to lean closer. "I've been trying to find a way to replicate that blue fire, but I can't seem to get it right."

George let the silence extend for a moment, admiring the scene. "Well, the rest of the fires here are normal, it's only there that they're blue, right?" he asked, soft, and heard Clay hum in affirmation. "Then it has to be somethig in that dark sand."

The silence rested again. "You're right," Clay seemed to realize. "It has to be the sand." There was another moment of nothingness, and then, "I grow the Nether wart on that sand, so I can try when we go ba-"

The rest of his sentence was interrupted by an odd, loud, whimpering sob in the distance, an unnatural voice somewhere high above.

"That's a Ghast," Clay said, somber, pointing at a white... cloud, with his free hand. The cloud turned around and- George just held tight to the other's hand. That was terrifying. "Yeah, let's get out of here."

With no objections to that, the brewster led the way back into the blue mushroom forest, through the edge, and across the barren soft rock until they reached the portal.

George felt as though he was finally breathing again when they stepped onto the stone of the tower's basement. His loud gasps for air soon turned into half-laughter.

"That was incredible!" he heaved, catching his breath still, turning to look at Clay with the biggest grin he'd probably ever worn. The brewster's eyes brightened. "I'd never seen so much lava in my life before! It was kinda terrifying, but I wouldn't mind accompanying you again when you have to get Blaze rods."

He only realized how that might be too much too soon after he'd said it, and tried to keep his smile as he waited for Clay to react.

"That's a great idea!" Clay was instantly on board with the plan, and George felt a giant weight leave his shoulders. "I'll-"

His next words died to the sound of the alarm bell ringing loudly above their heads.  
Alert, the both of them exchanged serious looks and rushed up to the base level of the tower and out into the streets, watching the villagers run about and take shelter in their homes. The two of them looked around for another second before the sound of an ominous tribal horn being blown reached them from beyond the walls.

"What is that?" Clay questioned, brows furrowed, turning to head for the stairs up to the patrol bridges of the wall.

He was stopped by George catching his sleeve, and found the other in shell-shock when he turned to see what happened.

"I recognize that horn," George mumbled, tiny, looking up into Clay's bright eyes with fear. 

Clay's alarmed gaze turned into one of worry and _anger_. "Are those the ones that raided your village?"

George felt himself pale, very much afraid. "I didn't-" he stammered, looking down and letting go of Clay's sleeve. "I thought I _lost_ them two years ago! They can't have- There's no way they tracked me!"

Clay seemed to realize something, and the ire in his eyes smothered somewhat. "I'm not blaming you, George! They would've found this village sooner or later, anyway."

George swallowed, the slightest bit relieved, trying to focus on the situation and the sound of the horn growing closer every second. Less than ten minutes, and they would reach the gates. He looked back up at Clay. "What are we going to do?"

"Fight them, obviously."

"What?! But they-!"

"I've been preparing for this scenario, George," Clay interrupted, dead serious, and his determination managed to seep somewhat into George. "With the iron golems watching the entrances, they'll have to break the walls to get in. You and I can attack them from the bridges."

"Wait- me?!" George blinked. "I already lost to them once!"

"But you're stronger now!" Clay insisted, grasping his arms tightly. George held his breath. "It's been three years, George, you've grown stronger since then! And now I'm here, too. We can do it," he assured, earnest. "We'll do it together."

"Together," George repeated, trying to calm down. "I'm- You're right, I'm stronger now," he managed out, looking to the side for a moment before returning his attention to the man in front of him. "I'll go get my gear, let's meet here in five."

"Make that three."

"I have to cross the fields and the river, so kindly fuck off."

With Clay laughing sharply at his back, George made a run for his cottage.

Four minutes later, and George was jogging up the stairs to the patrol bridges clad in his most resilient gear and holding his bow, sharpened axe and quiver full of arrows hanging from his belt. Clay was waiting for him, diamond sword in hand and shield in the other, a wide array of potions on his belt.

"Take these," the brewster handed him a bunch of glass bottles, some thinner than others. "The pink ones are for your health, they taste like melons; drink one if you need to heal up quickly. The others are poison and harming potions, those are for tossing."

George didn't know what pink looked like, but at least he could tell apart the bottles for tossing from the ones for drinking, so that should be enough.

"You take this side of the bridge, I'll take the other," Clay continued, an arrow from the pillagers approaching missing his head as he turned for the stairs. "Yell if anything happens."

"Alright," George breathed out, preparing himself. "Be careful."

Clay smiled back at him before setting his mask back in place and jumping down the stairs.

Nocking an arrow, George bit back the bile in his throat as he shot at the pillagers aiming their crossbows.

 _Together,_ he repeated in his mind. _Together._

The raid lasted nearly four hours.

George ran out of arrows sooner than he'd expected, and the walls were breached at the one hour mark. He'd never fought so many sentient enemies at the same time, and it proved to be a real test of the skills he'd aquired over the years.  
When they managed to push the villagers out from within the walls, Clay and him converged in the hole punctured into the bricks and started fighting side-by-side.  
George discovered, with much surprise and admiration, that potion-making wasn't Clay's only means of defending himself: the man was a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. His skills with a sword were outstanding, and outmatched only perhaps by his genious quick thinking. It was then that George realized potion-making wasn't his means to an end: it was simply one more weapon for his arsenal.

When the last Vex fell to an arrow George stole from one of the crossbowen, both Clay and him were drained off most their energies. The village had suffered no major damages outside of the hole in the wall. Two iron golems had lost an arm, and Mr. Golem himself had lost a leg; but it was nothing they couldn't repair with a bit more iron and a little magic.

The villagers held a raucus celebration as soon as George and Clay were both a little bit more rested and they had made sure no other pillagers would be arriving as reinforcements. He was dragged into a celebratory group hug with the rest of the village, but George cared only for the part of it that was Clay's arms around him and the bright smile on his face.

It was dark and late when they managed to sneak out of the party to take refuge in the top floor of the tower to watch the stars in relative silence. George felt as though way too many things had happened that day alone, and the thing he wanted most at the moment was sleep.  
But he found he wanted just as much to spend more time with Clay.

They sat together on some wooden planks on the top floor of the tower, looking up at the stars as they enjoyed the (relative) quiet and the company.  
George thought back on the last time he'd stopped to see the sky, and remembered a much younger version of himself lying on the backyard of his old house in his home village.  
His home village...

As if sensing his change in mood, Clay placed his hand atop George's, softly. There was silence for another moment, and then George leaned his head on Clay's shoulder.  
Neither moved from this new position.

"What now?"

Even George was surprised it was his own voice the one that broke the silence, but it was too late to back down now.

"What do you mean?"

"You said you had been preparing for this scenario," he continued, turning his hand under Clay's so that their palms were pressed together. "Were all the potions..."

"Just for that?" Clay completed, pensive, lacing their fingers together. George felt his chest grow warm. "No, not entirely. I've... I've found some legends, old books; about something that could rid the world of the monsters in it."

That made George look up at him, slighly surprised. Clay simply sighed, closing his eyes, his mask discarded to the side.

"There's nothing set in stone. But, well, one day I'd like to follow the trail further, see where it leads," he mused, quiet. "It might be worthwile."

George gave his hand a squeeze. "Then I'll go with you."

"You just want to go in adventures," Clay laughed softly, and George couldn't help but smile at that.

"And you don't?" he countered.

Clay sobered up a little. "Fair enough," his gaze turned to the celebration's lights below. "We could go on adventures together."

George felt as though his chest would burst. "I'd very much like that."

Clay smiled warmly down at him, and everything was good.  
The adventures could wait. They had a hole in the wall to patch, and some iron arms and a leg to repair.

But, George supposed, _this_ was his new beginning; here atop this village's local brewery with Clay by his side.  
And he was happy he wasn't alone to see it now.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm rusty with writing oneshots so i hope that was enjoyable!
> 
> have a nice day/night~
> 
> edit september 4, 2020: i may have accidentally marked someone's comment as spam bc my dumbass cant use their phone correctly so uhhhh im so sorry idk how to revert it if it happened n im sorry ily


End file.
